


Bullet For my Valentine

by SpellsOfScarlet



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 5+1 Things, AU, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst, As It Should, F/M, Falling In Love, First Meetings, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Only jesus himself knows how this got to 15k, Panic Attacks, Pietros death has an impact, Team as Family, Terrible language honestly, and everything inbetween, hes a therapist, much emotional cussing, no powers! Vision
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:34:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24479545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpellsOfScarlet/pseuds/SpellsOfScarlet
Summary: Her mind is a whirlpool of conflicting thoughts and ideas that don’t connect: she’s caught somewhere between turning, and running, and then screaming with the unfairness of it all.But it’s too late for that, isn’t it?Wanda Maximoff is dead, buried alongside her brother. This is her ghost. But as Vision’s fingers cup her jaw, and his arm encircles her waist, and their lips finally meet in a frenzy of fire and hunger and something more, this is the most life that her heart has ever felt.Or: 5 times Wanda meets Vision, and the one time that he stays (With a whole lot more of an explanation in the tags)
Relationships: Wanda Maximoff & Avengers Team, Wanda Maximoff/Vision
Comments: 3
Kudos: 14
Collections: ScarletVision Fic Exchange 2020





	Bullet For my Valentine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> ******Temporary PSA: due to minor technical issues, I’m unable to export the rest of the fic at this time. I wanted to get it out for the reveal time, so you can read up to the rather dramatic cut off, if you’d like- or u can come back tomorrow when it’s hopefully fixed :) ********
> 
> And the regular notes: Hey! I cannot believe that this turned into 15k words. I literally have no idea how that happened. This is my assignment for the Scarlet Vision Fic exchange, and it has all the things- angst, fluff, AU, meetings- and I’ve stared at it for so long I’m not even sure it makes sense. It’s set a little after AoU, if that helps. 
> 
> It’s a bit different from anything else I’ve attempted, but I tried rlly hard to make it coherent and so I hope you like it, TheLadyOfWorlds! Enjoy :) <3

** 1. **

Wanda is walking. Not with a particular purpose, or any sort of destination in mind. Her feet move one in front of the other, left then right and then left again, pounding a steady rhythm into the pavement that’s drowned away entirely by the buzz of the place. 

Walking. This is what people do for fun, right?

Stark builds unintentional murder-bots, and Natasha chokes the life from unsuspecting victims, and normal people, Clint says, enjoy strolls in the city.

The sunlight casts a bitter warmth over her face. It pools in the street corners like rain, running down the alleyways.  _Stay away from the alleyways_ , Sam Wilson had quite specifically warned, upon her surprise announcement of departure for the day. It was a funny thing to hear, for someone who had once spent her nights in such places, curled with only the heat of another body for warmth. She hadn’t bothered to point this out to him, though.

Sam’s concern doesn’t fall upon completely deaf ears, because even then- with nothing but the clothes on her back, and anger hot enough to blind any remaining tactics of self preservation- Wanda would have never graced the shadows of those dark crevices alone.

Not that she presumes that these New York backstreets are anything like the veins of Sokovia. If New York is a city- with all of its vast, endless streets, lined with sharp metal buildings that jut out of the concrete and pierce the clouds- then Novi Grad seems something of a glorified village, in comparison. 

Which is more dangerous?

There are far less explosives here, for a start. It doesn’t stop Wanda thinking about them, with every calculated step she takes. But this is a walk of leisure, so it would do her well to stop thinking about damn explosives, wouldn’t it?

_Too late_ , sings the voice in her head, that she beats away viciously with a big, pointy mental stick. The train of thought is rooted in the back of her mind now, like a particularly stubborn sort of vermin, that’s dug it’s sharp little claws in to the soft part and has no intention of letting go. It’s making her all jittery.

And  _this_ is why they didn’t want her going out alone. She sucks in a hiss of breath, and wills her legs to start moving again, relieved when they comply. At least one part of her being is still listening to her.

A few minutes of moving blindly forwards takes her round the corner of this narrow little street, which then spits her out, without much warning at all, into a great, vast swarm of people, all fighting to move around one another in different directions. Okay.  _Okay_ .

The most alarming part of it, Wanda realises, as she drowns in a pool of tourists, and kids with skateboards clipping her ankles, and steely-edged business men, is the  _noise_ .

Thoughts. _Feelings_. More than she’s ever known, crashing over her senses in unrelenting waves. It takes a second to shake herself from the overwhelming pull of it, and then another few before her limbs manage catch up with the frantic stammering of her brain. The sidewalk opposite looks blissful in comparison to the herd she’s found herself right in the midst of, and she makes a beeline towards it, tripping over suitcase wheels, and stumbling on bits of loose gravel.

The picture of elegance, Wanda’s sure. All she can think of, as the promise of some breathing space grows closer, is that if they’d have known anything at all of the extents of her telepathic abilities, there isn’t a chance she’d be out of that tower.

Okay , _see_ , she’s free. Panic over.

The pulse in her throat says otherwise, but Wanda elects to ignore it.

The human traffic on this particular strip of concrete is quite considerably less dense than whatever it is that she’s just experienced, and the noise- though still incomprehensible in volume- has lowered just enough for Wanda to hear her own thoughts. Although, she realises, this is one blessing she could quite happily live without. Leaning against a tree, she tries to regain something of her composure- to release some of the tension in her jaw, to unclench the steel-grip she has around the hem of her jacket- but she feels very much as if she’s been run over by a train.

Clint was absolutely right! Walks in the city are doing  _wonders_ for her wellbeing.

Making a mental note to never listen to anything else he tells her, she takes her first good look around, at the place her legs have carried her to. Only, when she looks over to her left, in awe of the astounding height of the buildings there, her eyes catch upon one girl, who is quite definitely, without a doubt, staring into Wanda’s soul.

That’s... slightly unsettling.

When at first, the stare doesn’t shift, Wanda simply stares back, wondering about the manners of the American youth and her talents in not blinking for long periods of time. The girl locked in her one-sided competition is younger than Wanda; her reddish hair is pulled into a tight ponytail, and her eyes, lined with a delicate flick, are like saucers. It’s all fairly trivial, until another person stops.

A man, this time, fully grown and sort of balding. Staring, directly at her.

Does she have toilet paper stuck to her shoe? Is that really a thing that happens here, just like the movies?

When an entire group of adolescent girls stop in their tracks, a faint thrill of fear shoots through Wanda’s veins. Her mind lingers of her earlier thoughts, of bombs, and shards of shrapnel, and the innate danger of places like these. It’s that same dread, that’s settled in her stomach now. She whips around, wondering if there’s something behind her- and it’s then that she catches sight of the screen: forty feet wide, thirty feet tall, with “Earth’s Mightiest Heroes!” sprawled over it in great block capitals.

She watches, intently, as the image swirls, the pixels flickering, until the writing has finally disappeared, and in its place is a sizeable picture of Steve’s face. And then Tony’s. The billionaires picture dissolved, and is replaced by Clint’s smile. Then it’s Natasha’s, then Bruce’s, and then...

Wanda locks eyes with those of her own stupid face, spanning the entire width of one enormous building.

Maybe, it’s time to admit that this isn’t one of Wanda’s best ideas. In fact, maybe it’s time to acknowledge the extent to which this is an absolutely dreadful idea, that she very much regrets ever having dreamt up to begin with. Her heart quickens, as the attention focused upon her only grows. The heightened sound of a bird flapping it’s wings nearby elicits a flinch, as if it’s the whistle of a grenade that Wanda hears, not the sound of New York’s winged vermin.

She’s about to turn off to the left, maybe find a nice patch of soft grass, a nice bench to collapse into, admire the sights in peace- when a car horn sounds, suddenly.

The noise is a sharp, startling thing, that sends a jolt of something like electricity through her system, and then rings in her ears, like an explosion. Unlike all of the other sounds, her mind doesn’t let this one fade.  _Can’t_ let this one fade. It fills Wanda’s skull like water, louder and louder still, until there’s an unbearable pressure behind her eyes, and her heartbeat quickens with a thrill of adrenaline.

Somethings happening. Something terrible.

A stab of voltage spikes in Wanda’s chest once more, as if she’s being jabbed with a cattle prod. Her throat constricts at the thought, and she clutches at the collar of her jacket with numb, slippery fingers. _ Too tight _ .

More of them are staring, now. There’s the woman with the coffee, the man at the newspaper stand, a gaggle of younger girls whose conversation has halted completely. The attention cuts into Wanda like shards of jagged glass, each of their stares pressing and inescapable. She- she needs to get out of here, before one of them recognises her.

But that’s too late, isn’t it?

“Mom?” Echoes a little boys voice, singled out against the chaos of the crowd. “Mom, look!”

Her pulse hammers violently in her chest, now; caught in her throat.

Something’s _really_ wrong .

Is this- has she- is it poison?

Heart attack?

Wanda’s breath comes quick, stuttered, with the pain that stabs between her ribs. There are far too many voices from every angle, warbled and distorted by the ringing. There are too many stares. There are black spots crackling at the corners of her vision; she stumbles, her hand finding purchase against a trash can, and she clings to it, choking on gasps of air, and she’s going to die.

“Is that her?”

She can’t breathe. She _can’t_ _breathe_. It’s as if someone’s flipped a switch, and in a matter of seconds the world has stopped spinning, and all of the air has been knocked from her lungs. Scarlet jumps about in her veins like an electrical current, responding to Wanda’s blind panic in a surge of wild energy- because _she_ _can’t breathe_ .

Magic is an instinctive thing. It wants to leap forwards, and seize, and snap, and chase away the danger in crackling tendons. The little boy is far too close now, his tiny face visible in flickers of clarity when her vision slides into dizzying focus.

“ _ I told you, didn’t I? You’re not in control, little Witch. That’s what makes you dangerous.“  
_

_“That’s what makes you mine_. ”

 _No._ She won’t. The water, the ringing in her ears; it gnaws at her skull, a disembodied high-pitched shriek that vibrates throughout her entire being. Her mouth fills with copper. A white light flares at Wanda’s right, sending another jolt through her bones, and her brain screams at her to  _ get down _ , but there’s something wrong with the connection between her mind and her body. 

Bombs. It’s all she can think about. Lumps of hot rubble, soaring in the air, and pressing down upon her ribs. Is that what this is? Is there a bullet, in her back?

No. _New York_ , not Sokovia. The differences are as clearly marked as anything. There isn’t a war, and there aren’t any explosives, just the snapping of...

Cameras.

 _ Shit_ .

Wasn’t that another one of the rules, one of the-  _stay low,_ don’t let too many people notice you, don’t-

Another light flashes, nearer to her face this time, and her brain- her stupid, broken brain- it can’t separate the thing from the smell of smoke, the shards of shrapnel, her heart pummelling against her chest.

 _Don’t let the paparazzi spot you. They’re quick. If you they recognise you, call one of us, before it’s gets messy_.

This is it, isn’t it?

It’s too late.

They’re going to find her here, lungs black and shrivelled, scarlet pulsing erratically, dangerously, and they’re going to drag her away, lock her up-

There are too many people, just like before. More than she can count. Their mouths are moving, but she can’t make sense of it; their arms point phones in the air like pitchforks, and they close in all around.

Wanda needs to move.

She can’t, she can’t-

“Hey,  _hey_ \- let me through!”

This new voice is clear against the chaos, slicing through it all like a knife. It’s strong sense of purpose seems to part the crowd with ease, and those who had advanced begin to back away slightly.

“Oh thank god, are you with the police?”

“What? What- no, I’m not-“

Another car horn sounds, much closer than the last one, and this tile Wanda can’t stop the pathetic cry that escapes her lungs. The ground rocks beneath her feet like a sea-storm, throwing her grip from anything solid- and then a strong arm reaches under her arm, and heaves her to her feet. 

“It’s okay,” says the same voice, that same voice, much closer now, “I can help you.” 

A face swims in and out of focus, inches from her own. A man. She doesn’t think she recognises him.

“Let’s get away from here, hm?”

All of her instincts, natural and learned, scream that this is  _wrong_ , letting herself be dragged away by some strange man, who’s muttering angrily to himself. The scarlet fights to protect her- it wants out, wants to wrap itself around his throat, and tear his arms away from her- but she can’t succumb to it. Not here.

“Absolute  _morons_ ,” she hears him say, presumably to himself. The world passes by in a senseless blur as he guides her to an unknown location. Distantly, her brain registers a few details: their surroundings are growing narrower, as they move forwards, and the noise of it all is fading to something of a distant rumbling, in the background.

“It’s okay,” he tells her, again and again; he chants it, as he half-drags her along.

“You’re okay, I promise. Just a little bit further.” 

When they finally come to a stop, a brand new wave of panic comes crashing back down on Wanda’s shoulders, like a pile of bricks. It’s just them, she thinks, but isn’t that worse? In this moment, there’s absolutely no one around to stop him doing whatever he would like to her. There isn’t a chance she can fight him off, like this, with her chest constricted, and her vision turning black at the edges. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he tells her, with a firm sort of re-assurance. “We’re just going to sit down for a bit, yeah?”

Despite everything, despite all of her instincts, and her mind telling her to run before she’s killed, g-d dammit, Wanda finds herself latching on to her potential murderer as if he’s a lifeline. She lets him push her gently to the ground, her knees giving way with little resistance. She lets him place himself besides her, their shoulders pressed up against one another. Because if she doesn’t, in that moment, she knows that she’s going to die.

“I- I can’t breathe,” she tells him, choking on her words. She reaches out, frantically, and grips his arm. “I can’t breathe.”

“Sure you can.”

She shakes her head, a terrible pained sound working it’s way from between her lips. There are tears on her face, she thinks. She can’t breath, and she’s going to die crying.

“You’re going to be alright, I promise. Can you look at me?”

There’s something about the natural authority of his voice, that makes it impossible to ignore the things that he’s saying. Reeling for air, Wanda processes his words, and then turns and strains to focus on his unfamiliar face. It swims in and out of clarity still, as if the camera lens is faulty. It makes her stomach churn.

“I don’t know what’s happening-“

“Don’t worry about that, just yet. Focus on breathing, in and out. In and out.  _See_ ,” he assures, after a moment, “you’re doing great.” 

Wanda let’s the words wash over her; a false sense of calm in the mouth of a storm. His accent is strange, softer than anything she’s heard around hear. It’s this difference that she clings to: the odd way that his vowels stretch, and the unfamiliarity with which he pronounces his Ts. It keeps her present, nails dug into her knees. 

“Can you tell me three other things you can see right now?” He asks her. 

Against all reason, Wanda tries very hard, again, to follow his question. The sea storm  around them is almost a fraction steadier now, as she attempts to survey her surroundings, scrabbling to find the words that describe them. 

“Bricks,” she gasps, firstly, making out the details of the wall she’s slumped against. it’s the only red brick she’s ever seen in this city, and it stand out to her like a forest fire. 

“Great, that’s great,” he says, as if she’s relaying to him some information of great importance. “Do you have two more?” 

In Russian, she’s certain she knows the specific name of the tree that hangs over them; she recognises the furl of the petals, the colour of them, suspended in the sunlight.

“Flowers,” she gives him, dumbly, and he nods all the same. 

The last thing is much clearer, than the others. Green eyes. A squashed face. It looks at for only a second, before it leaps over the fence gap, and disappears down a tiny hole. 

“Cat.” 

“Awesome,” he says, in that same levelled tone. 

“And what about three things you can hear?”

For a fraction of a moment, she considers telling him where to take himself. But her chest is beginning to loosen, she realises, the longer that she sits here. As she tries to discern an identifiable noise from her surroundings, she manages to pull in a successful breathe, a great big gulp of cool air, that sets about gradually slowing the hammering of her heart. 

“You,” she says, her voice noticeable stronger now. “Cars. And... a pigeon.”

“Full marks! You’ve got this, you can do this.” 

His face is far easier to make out, now that everything has stopped spinning. The man’s eyes are the first that Wanda notices, as his image stills to something clear. They’re entrancing. 

“You’ve just got to breathe,” he reminds her, taking her focus back to the task at hand. “That’s all you’ve got to do, and then you’ll feel better soon.” 

It’s almost impossible to believe this, in the moment- but something in his voice tells Wanda to trust him. Eventually, his soft words of encouragement flow into the gentle cheeping of a nearby bird; a sense of bone-deep weariness comes to replace the panic that had her brain in a chokehold, and the worst of it does pass. 

In, and out. In, and out. 

For a long while, the air is sweet on her tongue, and the ground is blissfully solid, as is his body, still pressed against her side. When Wanda blinks, the picture doesn’t warp, or fade. The danger is behind them. 

Petals drift down from the tree- a magnolia tree, in the last of its bloom- twirling to the ground like flurries of snow. She lets the quiet soak into her skin; feels the faint warmth of the sunlight, on her cheek. 

“What was that?” She asks him, quietly. 

His gaze is piercing, when he turns to look at her; his eyes brighter than any she’s ever seen, and yet soft, and king. 

“Do you think you can stand?” He asks her, gently. When they start walking, his explanation begins. 

-

He ends up taking her all the way back to the tower, despite her array of half-hearted protests, which lack any real conviction. She doesn’t have the grit remaining in her soul to tell him to leave her, and find her own way back. Only when they finally get out of the elevator, does Wanda properly free herself from the comforting grasp of his arms. 

As she goes to thank him, unsure of the words that can properly express her gratitude, the door flies open, and she jumps a foot backwards. 

“Wanda? Oh, thank  _god_ -“

Before she can open her mouth, there’s a blur of movement, and then two very strong arms attempting to choke the life out of her. For a second, she’s absolutely startled. The remnants of her fear tell her to kick, or flail- but then all of that drains away, and against all of her instincts, she feels herself relax. 

“You scared the shit out of us,” Clint says, bringing a hand up to rest on her head. They stay there for the solace of a moment, warm and safe, and then he releases Wanda from his embrace with an arm slung protectively over her shoulders. 

The lines under his eyes are deep, as if they’ve been carved by the point of a knife. His usual joking manner is dampened, somewhat, by theanxious shadows that line his face. 

“C’mon, let’s get you inside.”

“Thankyou, man.” 

Until Clint addresses him, she’s almost forgotten that her stranger is still standing there, complicit to let herself be guided into their floor, where she can collapse in her room, undisturbed. He’s leant against the wall where they’d separated, looking at Wanda and Clint in a way that’s rather... fond, almost. 

“Do you wanna come in? Grab a drink?” Clint offers. “It’s the least we can do.”

“No, it’s okay.” The softness of his words is still surprising, even now. “I think I’d better be getting back to work, before they realise that I’m gone.”

His warm gaze flickers over to Wanda alone, then; he sends her a smile that feels like a wash of bright sunshine, and then he’s gone in a blur of pale blue eyes and coat tails, leaving a strange stirring of butterflies in her stomach. 

** 2. **

Admittedly, her first outing had been quite utterly overwhelming- but Wanda isn’t a traumatised child. Until now, she’s lived her entire life scraping her own way through. Putting her own damn bread on the table. Just because for now she’s acquired some semblance of... of people, in her corner, it doesn’t mean for a second that she’s going to become reliant upon anyone other than herself.

Humans are fickle things, and she knows far better than to depend upon them.

They hadn’t wanted to let her back out by herself quite so soon, of course, the residents of Avengers Tower. For some indecipherable reason, they’re trying to build trust with her by making it abundantly clear that they aren’t in control of her, that she’s a free citizen, in this glorious free country. Wanda hates that she knows this. It crawls over her skin, like a shudder.

If Sam and Clint could only think a little damn quieter, she’d be perfectly content with the thinking that they only care about her due to some twisted sense of responsibility or obligation- not this. This is starkly different. This is the feeling of something Wanda hasn’t known for a very long time.

Still though, they’ve allowed her back out in this city against all good reason, which means that on this glorious day- the sky all grey and murky, as if someone has spilled ink over the clouds- she gets her rematch. No flashy, overpriced American suburb gets to hold that sort of victory for too long. Today, Wanda is going to get lunch; she’s going to remain perfectly composed whilst performing this task, enjoy her unremarkable walk, and in doing so, triumph over this stupid city and it’s stupid people.

And wow, there sure is a a lot of them. Hundreds, and thousands, and all of their thoughts buzzing around like swarms of angry wasps, all of their eyes lingering on her face for just a second too long...

Wanda pulls her hat lower over her eyebrows, thinking of many colourful curses to help clear her head of useless thoughts. Out of all of the things she’s seen and done, it’s stands to reason that she can deal with a harmless crowd, for goodness sake.

_Yeah, it seemed so last time ,  didn’t it?_

Shut up.

She’s made it this far: the streets have opened up into vast, colourful things, flooded with an unceasing stream of men and women and the odd tree or stall dotted about between like rocks in the river. It’s entirely possible that this is the same street she’d graced with her little outburst, whilst it’s as entirely probable that she’s in the opposite side of the city.

It’s... dizzying, the magnitude of the place. Incomprehensible. Wanda grips the sleeve of her jacket with rather unnecessary force, and stops in her path to regain her composure.  _Breathe_. In and out, like he’d told her to. In and out, in and out...

Not today, New York. Stupid city. She’s going to enjoy this walk if it’s the last thing she ever does on this ungrateful planet.

Doing things purely to enjoy them. It’s a very recent development in this startling direction that Wanda’s life has taken. Leisure. Relaxation.  _Fun_. It’s something she’s beginning to realise, as she continues down the bustling street, that knows very little about- and she certainly is at a loss of how to do any such thing  _alone_.

It’s a sneaky little thing, that unwarranted thought. For a second, it knocks her breath out of rhythm- but this time, she doesn’t let it run away from her. Wanda feels her poor knuckles whiten, as she focuses determinedly on the feel of the leather now clutched in her fists, and the tickle of the cool breeze that nudges her cheek and shifts her hair.

She is alone, isn’t she? Right here, right now. There isn’t any point in pretending anything else. He isn’t here to kick up stones with her, anymore. He isn’t here to lose himself in laughter, reminiscing about stories of their youth. He isn’t here.

When it gets quieter, when there isn’t anyone around to distract her, Wanda’s thought start running too quick. Spiralling. That’s what they’re doing right now, predictable as ever. Because she is alone. And there’s not a damn thing she can do that’ll change that fact.

So what does she do now?

Her stomach growls, with the indignation of a thing that’s only been offered the delicacy of water and dry cornflakes for the good end of three months. There’s a start.

Wanda takes it upon herself to have a look around, surveying the location that her faithful legs have carried her to. Lining the street, tucked between stores, and hanging over apartments are an endless area of places that look as if they sell something edible: there are flashy, garish fast-food places, with red plastic stools and fries littering the floor; there are little alcoves with signs hanging above them in dialects she can’t understand, selling cartons of noodles and fresh, steaming rice, and there are dainty little tea-rooms dotted about, trying much too hard to be small and quaint. It’s more variety crammed into this one place than she’s ever seen before in her life.

Back in Novi Grad, there’d been probably the excess of two McDonalds, which were also far less impressive in scale than the type America boasts, and then the few remaining family restaurants that hadn’t yet been run into the ground. More change jangles heavily against Wanda’s hip now than many businesses had seen in all of the time that she’d spent in those streets. Something about bullets seems to deter a tourist industry, apparently.

_Would you shut up about bullets?_

Something familiar then, is what she needs- preferably something that she can pronounce. Eventually, her eyes land on just the thing: a rusty little food truck, nothing too sure of itself, but clean enough to consider, with a red and white striped wind-cover, that flutters in the breeze.  _Joe’s Pizza_ , say the metal letters stuck up to advertise the place. Joe’s pizza it is.

Wanda strides towards the queue with newfound purpose, taking her place behind whom she presumes is a mother and her son, balanced on the woman’s hip. He waves a fat little hand in her direction, and she sticks out her tongue.

The chalkboard tells her that it’s $3.50 for a plain cheese slice, and she has no reason to doubt it’s validity, so she takes a handful of coins from her pocket, as she approaches the front of the queue. Initially, it strikes Wanda odd that slices are individually priced, but then she remembers the sizes of portions in this country, and winces at the thought of a Manhattan-sized pizza in its entirety.

“What can I get for you?” Asks who Wanda assumes is the latest in a long line of Joes been and gone; he wears a red and white striped apron, and a smile lacking such conviction that it comes across far more like a grimace.

She gives him her order robotically, watching him wrap up her food, before returning with it in his gloved hand.

“Three fifty,” he barks, and she nods politely, trying to distinguish the difference between the shapes of metal in her hand. This is a harder task than she’d anticipated. The coins sit in her palm like hot coals: the numbers engraved on them seem to twirl and dance about as the panic edges into her view, and she hears a low muttering from behind.

“Do you have a bill?” Enunciates Joe, impatiently, peering over his stand. “A five dollar bill? That’ll cover it, sweetheart, and then I can give you the change...”

Before Wanda can scramble to empty her pockets for a note, an arm reaches over her, and deposits a sum into the guy’s hand. 

“That’s 7 dollars, thankyou, sir- and I’ll have another of the same, if you’d be so kind?”

That voice- 

The pizza guy gives a gruff nod, and she feels her pulse ebb away to something rational again, as the attention falls away from her. 

It’s him, isn’t it?

“I had that,” she reprimands, turning and dropping the slice of pizza in his hand, bundled in paper. For some reason, though, when she meets his entrancing stare, Wanda’s scowl appears to betray her.

Her stranger- exactly as she remembers him- mirrors the stupid, traitorous smile that’s worked it’s way over her face: his is sweet, lacking any of the condescension that she almost expects from a man who might think that he’s come to her rescue for a second time, today. He has a light scarf thrown around his neck, the exact same shade as his eyes, which gleam brilliantly against the grey of it all, and that had to be a deliberate choice, didn’t it?

“Yeah, I know, but... dinner’s on me today!”

Wanda falters, somewhat, tugging the beanie back from her face, and attempting to smooth her hair. 

“I think I’m the one who owes that.”

Her stranger, however, waves the sentiment away with a lazy flick of his hand; he unfurls the grease-stained paper from his pizza, and wanders over to toss it in the trash can. 

“Were you heading anywhere in particular?” He asks, cheerily.

“Just walking.” 

Wanda’s head tilts a little to the right, as she tries to analyse his motives. She doesn’t need to be escorted around, if that’s what he’s thinking. She has the force of an atom bomb rushing through her veins, and she also isn’t about to collapse upon the pavement. Not just yet, anyway. She was doing perfectly fine before he showed up.

Something of a nervous look flits over his sharp features as he notices her calculating. Wanda half expects him to simply give her a good-day right then, and disappear back into the city like some strange, persistent daydream, but, for some reason, he doesn’t seem keen on parting ways so soon.

“Do you wanna go sit down somewhere and eat?”

It’s quite the surprise to Wanda- both the question, and the realisation that, yeah, actually,she thinks she does. 

He grins when she nods, falling eagerly into step at her side. She tries to gather the words to express her gratitude for the last time he’d found her here, but finds that he doesn’t seem to want her to give one. As they walk, he fills the silence with an endless flow of noise- interesting, comforting noise, for which she is endlessly grateful- pointing out specific places, to their left and right, and different types of birds in the sky. 

“You know a lot of stuff,” she remarks, when he tells her about the size of the world’s largest pigeon, her right eyebrow cocked.

“I’m a man of many talents!” 

He tugs on his scarf with the air of some snobbish royal, fixing his garb. She laughs, the warmth of it settling over her like a haze. Their arms brush together, as they walk. She isn’t sure why she notices this. 

Eventually, they come to a stretch of grass- a little slither of wild, in the midst of all of this concrete- and he leads her to a bench. Their pizza isn’t exactly piping hot now, but neither of them seem to mind, content to sit and watch the clouds drift by. 

“How was the food?” 

“Not bad, actually.”

“I get the impression that your expectations were rather low,” he says, playfully. 

“I’m my defence, the only thing I’ve eaten since I came here is a hundred years old man’s home cooking.” 

It’s his turn to laugh then; the brightness of the sound sends something like a shiver, through her body. They talk for a while, like this, trading bits of stories and information about one another and giggling like children, as the sun attempts, in vain, to filter through. It... it isn’t what she’d expected, his casual company. It’s nice. 

Neither of them seem to mention, as they ramble about anything and everything, that the distance between them is far less now than it had started. Maybe he doesn’t notice. Maybe she shouldn’t. 

Maybe she shouldn’t notice, either,the way that his cheekbones catch the light, or the little silver flecks in his eyes, like scattered fragments of diamond. Maybe Wanda should be far less observant, so that she wouldn’t have to pretend to ignore the looks that he sneaks, when he thinks she won’t notice- the ones that seem to linger over her lips, her jaw... 

“Are you ever gonna tell me your name, or am I supposed to guess?” Wanda asks, after a while. Her cheeks ache from smiling. 

Something like mischief sparkles in his eye. He bites his lip, and then lets it go. 

“Vision,” he says. 

One of the connections in Wanda’s brain seems to fizzle out. Her surprise must be rather poorly concealed upon her face, because he laughs loudly, when he notices her expression. 

“What, don’t I look like a Vision?”

Is it a fake name? Is he lying, to her? 

Maybe it isn’t as sinister... maybe he has eccentric parents- or maybe Vision is a common name to give an English child, and it’s quite the coincidence that she’s never met one before; or maybe it’s a particularly stubborn nickname, that’s become something more than that. Either way, Wanda shrugs it off. Two can play the game of mystery, if that’s what he wants. If that’s what  _Vision_ wants. Admittedly, one of them is winning the game of mystery right now, but Wanda is nothing if not competitive. 

“No, no,” she assures him, unable to keep her eyebrows in check, “I really see it. I should’ve guessed that.” 

He chuckles, bringing up a hand that disturbs his silvery hair. 

“And you’re Wanda, right?” 

“How on Earth did you know?” 

“Lucky guess.”

Her gaze falls to his fingers, that are twiddling with the hem of his coat. Nervous, again. Why? 

“Do you have a phone?” Vision asks, pulling Wanda from her thoughts. Their hands brush against one another, and the places where the skin meet seem to tingle. 

“Are you asking for my number, Mr Vision?”

A light pink dusts his cheeks, which he could attribute to the cold, but his stuttering would say otherwise. 

“Well- maybe- if you- if you need help, or-“ 

Wanda laughs, lightly, and his words fall away, replaced by a soft smile. 

“What’s so funny?” 

“Nothing at all. And I have no idea how this works, by the way,” she tells him, pulling the Stark phone from her pocket and depositing it in his lap, “but I’d guess you know a lot more about technology than me?” 

-

**_ Fri 22 Sep, 02:36  
_ ** _Vision_

U don’t happen to have any more facts about pigeons, do u? 

_ Wanda, I assume? :) _

Yours truly :)

_ To what do I owe the pleasure, at this ungodly hour? _

Haha sorry 

I can’t sleep 

_ Don’t be sorry  _

_ Well _

_ The other day I saw a rather interesting Article.. _

** Typing... **

**3.**

It isn’t that Wanda’s looking for him. That would be ridiculous, wouldn’t it? For one, she has his phone number, so if she wanted to meet him- which she doesn’t- it could be very easily arranged. By the third time that she offers to pick up coffee in one week, however, the team have wrongly assumed that her visits to the city definitely have an ulterior motive. 

“I just like the fresh air,” Wanda says, nonchalantly, smiling in a way that her face has never experienced.

Clint nearly spits out his Americano.

“First of all,” he snorts, eyes alight, “this is Manhattan. Fresh air doesn’t  _exist_ here.”

“And the city life,” she continues, turning her voice all chirpy and scarily bright. “There’s just so many... people, and colours, and the  _fashion_!”

They all stare at her blankly, eyes flitting from her black sports leggings to the t-shirt she’s stolen from Tony’s floor- four sizes too large, wrinkled, and hanging from her frame- to the three-day old eyeliner, smeared around a rough approximation of her eyes.

“Is it drugs?” Tony asks.

She waves her hand indifferently, very much relishing in their confusion.

For all of their interrogations, they never stop her leaving. Sure, they fuss like mothers- Sam, asking is she’s eaten, if she’ll be back for dinner- but she supposes he’s allowed that, when the fear flickers in her eyes, and he knows exactly how to distract her. Calm her. Remind her where she is, without making her feel like some traumatised child. She appreciates this more than she can convey.

So yeah, Wanda thinks, as she heads into town with her hat pulled low, what does it matter if she specifically hangs around the places that she’s spotted Vision before? It doesn’t mean that she’s looking for him. It doesn’t mean anything at all.

“You know there are plenty of coffee shops that aren’t three blocks away from your tower right?” He points out, the next time she meets him, with a something of a smug glint in his eye.

“I like to walk,” she assures him, shutting down any fanciful ideas he may be dreaming up.

Over time, it becomes something of a regular thing,their lunchtime rendezvous in random parts of the city. Initially, Vision tries to teach her some significant street names, in an attempt to instill a rather basic sense of direction in her memory. There’s little success to follow. If she’s being brutally honest, she doesn’t think the project is likely to be renewed.

Sometimes, it’s as random of an encounter as those first two. On the odd day, however, Wanda’s just a little too close to the area she knows his work is situated for it to be an honest coincidence, and then sometimes, they actually formally arrange the thing, and sit in the park eating greasy street food until the sky turns pink, and the sun isn’t strong enough to thaw out the approaching colder months.

Oddly enough, she’s managed somewhat to quell some of her panic, concerning the large crowds of people in the city. There are days, still, when all she can hear is the rattling of artillery shells against her door, but in those days she chooses to stay warm at home, and thankfully, most of the time, those memories stay far, far away. It gets easier, every time. Especially when she’s with him.

“You can read minds, right?” He asks her one day, his eyes bright and scheming.

For a second, Wanda hesitates. Not everyone she’s ever met reacts...kindly, to her abilities. 

“On a good day.” 

She catches herself holding her breath, as she studies his reaction. 

“Okay, so... what number am I thinking of?” 

“Are you kidding?”

“Say it on three.” 

“You’re such a child-“

“One, two- 

“ _Seven_ ,” they exclaim in unison, and the look of elation that lights up Vision’s face is one she wishes she could frame. 

He tells her all about his job, in the moments between his shifts, when he finds her at the usual spot in the park. He’d told her in that first meeting, all of those weeks ago, that he’s a therapist- that’s why he was so good at calming her down. Which is why, when Vision learns that Wanda can sense emotions, as well as thoughts, he decides that she can take the job instead. 

She laughs. 

“You’re a lot happier, recently,” Sam mentions off-hand, as he stirs a pot of something tomatoey on the stove. 

He chuckles, when she scowls. 

“That’s not an insult!” 

Wandamumbles something nondescript about slander, and goes back to reading her book. It’s an older title, something Vision had mentioned in passing, and it’s far more interesting than the soppy stuff that Steve has laying around. 

It rather seems, as she folds the edge of her page, that the stranger who’d happened to stumble across her at her one and only hour of need has now inched his way into every little nook and corner of her life. 

_Pathetic_.

The little voice in the back of her mind bears an awful resemblance to the dulcet tones of Baron Von Strucker. 

_Do you really think he thinks of you, as often as you drool over him?_

Her memory fades to the image of his hand over hers; the way he looks at her when she laughs; the way his movements mimic her own, thoughtlessly. 

Fuck off, Wanda thinks, her mind going all woozy, as she daydreams about his arm pressed against hers. Let me have this. 

_Charming. Arguing with yourself, now. That’s the first sign of madness._

It’s been a long time coming.

**4.**

“What are you smiling at, Maximoff?” 

Wanda drains her face of emotion at such an impressive speed she subsequently fears she may have given herself whiplash. She has been doing that a rather unnecessary amount lately, hasn’t she? Clint chuckles to himself, as he lifts up her feet, manoeuvring them so that he can sit down on the sofa.

“What do you want?” She asks, smiling despite herself.

“Do you wanna...” he sings, as if he’s announcing the prospect of a walk to a particularly enthusiastic dog, “come to HQ with me and Nat?”

This time when her face changes, Wanda makes sure that her repulsion is evident.  _Shield_. As a rule, she doesn’t trust them anymore than she would trust a man with a gun to her temple. How can she? For how long had that organisation been crawling with Hydra- the very same people who’d held her, who’d tortured her, day after day- before Fury chose to take notice of the Nazis in his rank?

Clint exaggerates his smile rather violently, waiting for an answer.

“Why would I want that, Clint?”

“A fun family day out?”

She stares at him, utterly lost for words.

“Government intelligence secrets?”

“I can read minds.”

Clint keeps his rather delirious smile, tilting his head to the side. “Yeah, I do recall that actually, now you mention it. Word on the street, though, Fury has new information.”

She rolls her eyes. 

“Does he now?”

“Yup. Information concerning one...  _ Daniel Whitehall _ .”

The second that those words leave his mouth, the blood in Wanda’s veins runs cold, as if someone has flicked a switch. Out of all of the things she might’ve been expecting him to announce, this is in another realm entirely, so much so that she has a brief internal conflict to keep her breathing level. Not  here.  Not now.

It’s rather amusing, in a twisted sort of way, the extent of a reaction that two measly words can evoke in a person. The flood of unwelcome images. The memories. The bile in her throat that rises as her thoughts begin to spin...

And the fury, stamped right down to the deepest pit of her soul, flame still lit. Unwavering. Waiting.

Wanda doesn’t think, judging by the way that Clint’s face has fallen, that a moment ago he had any idea of the gravity of the name he’d revealed. Before he can ask any questions that he doesn’t want the answers to, she snatches her legs from under his arm, scrambles to her feet, and pulls her hair back into the semblance of a ponytail.

She hasn’t organised to meet Vision today, so she doesn’t think he’ll miss her.

“Fun family day out, right?” she says, gritting her teeth, daring Clint to take it back. He doesn’t. She appreciates that. He nods, firmly, and then follows her to the door.

“No murder!” Steve calls, from somewhere in the halls.

“Buzz kill,” Clint murmurs, and Wanda doesn’t say anything at all. 

-

“What do you know about Mr Whitehall?”  Nick Fury asks. Direct. Straight to the point. 

He sits, on his desk, with the infuriating stance of a man who genuinely believes he holds the power in this room. The walls of his office are high, each of them the same senseless shade of grey, dotted with bits of things in fancy frames that she doesn’t bother to read. It’s rather like a prison cell. 

Funnily enough, Wanda knows a lot of things about the man in question. Firstly, she knows the exact shade of his yellowed teeth, pulled back into a snarl. She knows the feeling of his gnarled hand, yanking back her head to study her face, his spittle spraying over her as he spat words she couldn’t zone out. She knows the colour of his blood, when her teeth met his arm, and she knows the strength behind his fist.

“Older than he looks,” she offers.

“You don’t say.”

Fury attempts to stare her down, his face entirely blank and unreadable. Of course, it’s only unreadable until the moment she decides otherwise. If she becomes so inclined, Wanda can know every nasty little secret swirling about in his thick skull before he’d even realise that she’d been poking around in there. But they’re doing things properly, today, so for the moment, she refrains.

It’s a game, talking with Fury. Its also safe to say that it’s a terrible game, which she isn’t enjoying in the slightest.

“He was very friendly with...  Strucker ,” Wanda bites out, incredibly unwilling to talk at length on this subject.

“What do you mean?” 

“He worked with the sceptre.” And all of the pet projects that came along, with such a deal. 

_Terrible temper on that one, Wolfgang, are you sure it’s worth the food you waste on it?_

“Do you know where he is, Mr Fury?” She asks, quietly. 

“My men have a location, and good reason to believe it’s accurate.” 

“If I tell you what I know about Mr Whitehall, will you tell me where he is?” 

“Perhaps.”

“Then what is it that you need to know?”

-

“Botswana, hm?” Natasha ponders, her voice somewhat soothing, against the pulsing of Wanda’s world-record headache. “I can’t remember if I’ve ever been there before.” 

Wanda herself leans against the wall silently, all of the strength having drained from her body. There’s a bottle of water in her hand that she can’t quite feel, and a terrible taste in her mouth. Vulnerability. She decides it doesn’t suit her.

“Well, it looks like we’re upgrading to a fun family vacation!” Clint exclaims, quieting his voice a little, as he nudges her shoulder. Wanda forces a reassuring smile, and he rests a hand on her shoulder, his silly pretences turning completely serious for all of a rare moment.

“Me and Nat are required for briefing,” he tells her, the weight of his arm comforting upon her own. “Are you going to be okay, for an hour?”

She nods, as convincingly as she can manage. 

“Are you sure? Because we can skip, I’m not scared of anything Fury can do.”

“Yes you are.”

“Nat’s not scared of anything Fury can do.”

The woman smiles, genuinely, but Wanda shakes her offer away no matter how tempting it may be. She isn’t about to faint, like some weepy Victorian Madame. She doesn’t need their constant company, for goodness sake. 

“Why don’t you have a wander?” Clint suggests. “You’re good at that.” 

“Okay.” 

“Stay close. We won’t be long.” 

“Oh, and Wanda?” He’s quite literally hanging around the doorframe now, pointing an unwavering finger in her direction. 

“Try not to kill anyone without me.” 

Well, she supposes, as she watches them disappear out of the door- Clint all broad shoulders and feet tripping over one another, and Natasha with the grace of a cat, every step calculated- it can’t hurt to try... 

In fact, for the meanwhile, she behaves in what can only be described as an exemplary fashion. Despite every instinct ingrained deeply into her moral character, Wanda even manages to fight the urge to immediately break into every classified room with a lock on the door. Actually, that’s rather worrying. Someone might need to have a good poke around in her own head, to make sure someone hasn’t taken over. 

For now, though, she has an address, burning in her mind like a sigil, and that’s all she needs to know. 

So, she elects to take herself on a walk. She’s getting rather good at those, isn’t she? 

Wanda did promise Clint and Natasha that she wouldn’t leave the building, which she starts to dearly regret, as she soon discovers that every length of the place is the exact same shade of grey- from the carpets, to the walls, the black-tinted window frames. It’s enough for a person to lose their sanity, all of this blank space and twisted corridors. 

There’s a café, somewhere in this building chock-full of assassins. Surely that’s a little more friendly. She recalls noticing a sign, as she’d made her way to Fury’s office, but there certainly aren’t any signs in this part of hell, so she carries on walking until she reaches a floor that isn’t so steeped in secrecy that the corridor is sound-proof. 

It’s clear she’s made some ground when people start appearing from behind doors, carrying files and clipboards, and offering polite, careful smiles. In fact she’s pretty damn sure she’s only a few turns away from some complimentary fries, when she catches a flash of silvery blonde hair, a little further down the hallway. 

Something about the familiarity of the sight, in this alien place, makes her heart flutter. And then the man with the silvery hair turns around, and her heart lurches painfully, as if someone holds it in their fist, and squeezes. 

“Vision?” Wanda asks, her voice unusually high. 

It’s him, alright. His high cheekbones that she’d recognise anywhere, and his glittering eyes, dampened, somewhat, by the hum of the fluorescents. The yellow light falls on him harshly, in such a way that makes him look quite different, to all of the times she’s seen him before. He looks a little flustered, when he recognises her, as if he didn’t at all expect to see her there. 

Why would he? 

For the second time today, Wanda’s blood goes cold. Its a horrible sensation, that of all of the warmth in her body seeping away in one breath. Her thoughts race a mile a minute, trying to compensate for the confusion that clouds her brain like a fog: is he hurt? Do they have him here, because of her? Is he being interrogated? Are they using him?

No . _No_ , that isn’t right. The questions die down to a low hum, as her eyes land upon the lapel of his jacket. He isn’t here against his will, at all. Rather the opposite, actually. 

There, just above the pocket, hangs an identification.  _Well_ , she remarks, distantly, turns out he wasn’t lying about the name.

“Hi,” Vision says, breaking the weight of the silence that’s settled over them uncomfortably. The calmness of his voice is jarring, and the angle of his smile is all wrong. “This is a lovely surprise.” 

Wanda gives herself a moment to swallow, dryly, and when she next speaks, her voice is hollow.

“Therapist, right?”

“Yeah,” Vision says, holding out an arm that she flinches away from, “That wasn’t a lie, I-“

“I mean I guess I never asked you where you worked, did I?”

Is this a stupid thing, to be angry about? She doesn’t know, anymore. She’s lost all sense of reason. Her mind is filled with static, and nothing of logic remains.

There’s a clear cut reason, isn’t there, why Vision’s never mentioned his place of work, despite all of the times they’ve talked about it. It catches in her throat, the connotations of it, as he looks at her with something like regret.

Because he knows where she came from.

Shield.  _Hydra_. It’s all the same damn thing, in the end. Over the years they blurred into one, rooting so deeply within one another, that neither could stand without the other. The men at her cell, the men with the cattle prods- were they regarded as Shield, or Hydra? The men in sterilised white, who sliced into her skin with knives and sadistic precision- did they answer to Fury, or Strucker alone?

What was it that Wanda had thought, only this morning? She doesn’t trust shield any more than a man with a gun to her head. But she was wrong to think that- she sees that now. A bullet would be far more merciful than anything she endured at the hands of this organisation.

If he’s Shield, then... it’s hardly been this fever-dream of magical coincidences that she’s fallen for, has it? All these meetings, and coffees, and days spent talking over everything and nothing, all at once. Vision isn’t her stranger, her unlikely companion in this strange new world.

He’s a damn Shield agent. He has been, from the very beginning.

The thought takes hold of her heart in a vice grip, and squeezes it until it bursts- until nothing remains but a dead, black hole in her chest, and her lip is trembling like a child.

He just- he had to be, didn’t he?

Too good to be true. She should’ve seen it coming. _She did_. She should never have dropped her guard, blinded by the stupor of some pretty eyes.

When the corner of her own eyes prickle, stood in this corridor that she’s rather inclined to tear to shreds of grey rubble, it takes all of her resolve not to seize the red static and throw him against the wall.

“Wanda-“ Vision tries, but she’s heard enough.

People are fickle. She was stupid enough to let herself forget it, for a warm blur of months. It won’t be a mistake that she’ll make again.

She turns her back on him, and she runs.

-

There’s something unnatural, about the rain. Nothing good ever comes from being far too intuitive, but the weather here always seems that way- much more intelligent than a random pattern of air pressure and seasonal shifts. It rained at Pietro’s funeral. Great, big, Earth-shattering sheets of water, crashing against the ground. It’s more subdued than that now, but it’s rain all the same. 

Her jacket had stopped being waterproof long ago. The water has soaked right into her skin; she’s so cold, now, that she barely feels the chill. It’s probably dangerous.

She sits on the wall, the wall with the red-brick, and the magnolia tree, now deprived of anything but it’s bare, spindly branches. It’ll bloom again next year, when the cold passes. How much of the cold can it withstand, though, before it loses all of its greenery for good?

-

_**Tue 21 Nov 2020, 18:23** Vision_

_Are you safe?_

**_18:20_ **

_Are you home?_

**_18:35_ **

_Stay where you are, I’m coming to you_

-

At the hour that he finally arrives, her bones are so stiff with the cold that she’s unsure whether she could turn to face him even if she wanted to. He swears blindly in relief when he first sees her there, holding ritual on the brick wall like a statue. When he’s caught his breath, all of the solace of this emotion seems to drain away.

“I need you to know something,” he starts, not bothering with the pretence of any greeting or introduction. There’s a startling new edge to his voice, that’s normally so meticulously calm.

“Are you listening to me?”

Wanda watches a droplet race another down the pipe, sending tiny, shattered specks of water into the air when it hits the ground. Is he going to get angry?

When Vision comes and sits down beside her, she despises the warmth that radiates from him, pressed up against her shoulder. It would’ve been far easier to accept, she thinks, if he had turned to his fists instead. It would be far easier to hate him, for one thing.

He’s looking at her, she can feel the heat of it, but she grace him with the respect of returning it.

He knows that she’s listening, though, innately. He’s wasted enough of his time around her to be able to work out that sort of thing.

“I’ve been trying to think of the best way to explain this,” he says, “and I think it’s easier if I start from the beginning.”

There’s a small pause, as he waits for some indication, but he doesn’t get it. Wanda watches the rainwater swirl with the grit in ribbons of murky brown, and clasps her hands upon her knees. Vision sighs with an unintelligible emotion, and continues nonetheless.

“I’m not trying to make you feel sorry for me. I’d just like you to try and understand, okay?”

“When I got out of school, I didn’t have a lot of money. I didn’t have a lot of people. I just had my degree, that was it.”

A rogue drop of water lands on her forehead, and she swipes it away.

“It was... it was bad. I was close to the streets. So, when Shield offered me a job,” he continues, his voice growing strained, “I took it.”

“It turns out they were in need of a few therapists, after the agents realised they’d been working for Hydra.”

He laughs dryly, but it isn’t a pleasant noise.

“It’s a good job. I get good money, so that I keep my mouth shut. That’s the deal. I’m not gonna pretend that I’m there for any other reason.”

Wanda waits with baited breath for the next part, curling in upon herself subconsciously, but Vision seems to have finished what he’s going to say. Her voice is hoarse, her accent thick, but she’s past caring. She needs to ask him this.

“Did they send you, on that day?”

She doesn’t specify any further, but she can tell immediately that he knows exactly what she means- and the hurt in his voice is something that hits her like a blow to the stomach.

“God, Wanda,  _no_ , is \- is that what you think?”

She shrugs, indifferently, refusing to acknowledge the faint flicker of hope, that’s ignited in her chest.

“I wouldn’t put it past them.”

For a moment, there’s nothing but the noise of heavy breathing, and rain against stone.

“I don’t pledge my allegiance to Nick Fury,” Vision says, a tremor underlying his words. “I don’t have any obligation to that place, other than assuring the wellbeing of my patients. I’m not a  _spy_. And I would  never do anything like that. I would _never_ hurt you.”

Wanda wants, more than anything, to believe him. To curl up into his arms, and let his story soak into her skin, healing all of her pain and anguish with the miracle of a simple misunderstanding.

So why can’t she let herself believe it?

_Because you don’t deserve it. Love. You’re a weapon, little Witch_. 

“ Shield didn’t send me on that day. I stumbled across you. And I thank the higher powers everyday that we crossed paths.”

 _And you’ll never be anything more than that_.

“If Shield didn’t send you,” Wanda bites out, the cold and the pain turning her words sharp and bitter, “then why are you still  here? ”

“Because- because I  _like_ you, Wanda.”

The noise of the rain falls away, becoming something irrelevant.

For the first time since he’s been here, Wanda looks up, from the floor. Tentatively, she meets his eyes. They’re slightly swollen; tinged red, around the edges, and it’s a sight that makes her stomach cramp. She doesn’t want him to hurt, she-

“I like you a lot,” Vision says, softly, and his hand comes up to move to tuck her hair behind her ear.

Something short circuits then, in Wanda’sbrain. One of the wires finally goes  _caput_. Sparks dance behind her eyes.

Her mind is a whirlpool of conflicting thoughts and ideas that don’t connect: she’s caught somewhere between turning, and running, and screaming with the unfairness of it all. She’s caught between the instinct that’s followed her her entire life, to escape before she gets too attached, to sever herself from this now whilst the pain is minimal-

And then closing the distance between them, and leaning in to his intoxicating warmth. Because it’s too late, isn’t it? His words send exhilarating jolts of static down the nape of her neck, and his eyes, locked so intently upon her own, turn all of her resolve to jelly. It’s been too late ever since he lead her away from that crowd.

One instinct has won over. She needs to tell him, needs to find the words to return it- but her mind is focused on one thing above all else, and her body moves of its own accord.

Wanda Maximoff is dead, buried alongside her brother. This is her ghost. But as Vision’s finger cups her jaw, and his arm encircles her waist, and their lips finally meet in a frenzy of hunger and something more, this is the most life that her heart has ever felt.

And right at that moment, Wanda’s head goes blissfully silent. 

**5.**

_Stay away from the alleyways_ , Sam had said, and she’d really tried to follow his advice, honest- but a rather recent development has kind of disrupted her intentions to stick to the rules. Cities, and their alleyways, and- it’s rather difficult to concentrate on the specifics of such things, when his kisses trail down to her jaw- and where was she? Cities. Great big things, aren’t they? They say Paris is the city of love, but Wanda wholeheartedly disagrees. 

“Don’t you have a job to be getting back to?” She asks Vision, grinning like an idiot. With a surprising ease, he holds her against the wall, taking care to make sure the stone behind her head is dry when it’s entirely unnecessary, as Wanda is currently utterly oblivious to the grime of the place. It could be a stretch of glorious white beach, or a dingy back-alley in Manhattan, and she’d be none the wiser. 

“They can live without me for a few more minutes,” he says, pressing chaste kisses to her lips, “Or... hours.” 

She quirks an eyebrow.

“Is that so?” 

Stolen lunch breaks in the shadows, these are the moments Wanda lives for now, between fighting with the team and playing more games of cards with Clint than she knew existed. They’ll go further one day... it’s a thought that makes her heart flutter, like a teenager- but for now, she doesn’t mind this one bit. The secrecy. The spontaneity. The bits of soggy cardboard, sticking to her boots. 

She pulls him close, by the lapels of his shirt, until she can feel the tickle of his breath, against her lips. 

“Go,” she whispers, and then in one uncharacteristically smooth movement, she untwines herself from his grip, and pushes him out into the sunlight, finding her footing on the slippery gravel. 

“You’ll meet me at the pizza stand, right?” He calls, backing away, and adjusting his tie. “Four O’clock?” 

“I wouldn’t miss it,” she assures, feeling a great spark of joy at the boyish grin that lights up his face, before he disappears into the street, coat tails flapping. 

It’s a steady walk back to the tower, although a little more brisk than usual, as the cold of winter really seems to make itself known , today. She takes a left turn at the thrift store with the headless mannequins, a right when she passes the subway entrance, almost as familiar now to Wanda as the twists and turns of Sokovia’s capital. Well, this particular route is, anyway. New York is a rather large map to commit to memory, for a person that possesses no internal compass. 

When she walks into the common room, Wanda’s greeted with the smell of something quite uncharacteristically edible, wavering in from the kitchen. She tries not to let her hopes up too high. Apparently, smells can be deceiving. Apparently, something smelling delectable does nothing to stop it tasting like coal. The things she learns, living with a group of adult children, are enough to fill a book- for a very nuanced target audience.

Its a pleasant surprise then, when the soup she ladles for herself, into a Captain America bowl, of course, is actually quite nice. Rhodey must be around here, somewhere, then. Unless Natasha has decided to make something, which does occur occasionally, when all of the stars align. 

Nope. She finds him in the living area, squabbling with Tony. Grabbing her book from the exact spot she’d left it, Wanda glues her eyes to the page, walking mindlessly over to the sofa without acknowledging any of them, before settling into a spot that doesn’t already hold an assassin or a super-soldier and resuming at the sentence where she’d left off earlier. 

It’s a familiar routine, and one she’s very much grown to enjoy. The hours trail away as she turns page after page, until suddenly only one chapter remains, and a shrill beeping from her phone tells her it’s 3 o’clock, on the mark.

“Got somewhere to be?” Asks Sam, yawning. She hasn’t told them about Vision yet, per say, but they’ve gathered the gist of it. As long as she comes back to them safe and unharmed, they leave the specifics of it entirely up to her, only prying when Clint feels particularly annoying. 

“Always,” she says, focusing for a moment to remember the last word that she’s read, so she can pick it up again later. Wanda dumps her bowl in the sink, unceremoniously, snatches her jacket from the hook, and is just about to turn on her heel, when Steve rushes into the common room, his brow furrowed deeply, and his movements worryingly urgent. 

“There’s an attack on Lex Avenue,” he announces, slightly breathless.

The name of the street piques Wanda’s attention enough to stop her in her tracks, but she can’t quite figure out its significance, in the moment... 

“Doom-Bots,” Rogers continues. “Five hundred of ‘em, with heavy artillery- and they’re heading directly for Shield H.Q.”

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so that was a thing!! I salute u if u made it all the way through that wall of texts. 
> 
> Let me know what u thought :) 
> 
> Thankyou to everyone who read this and also to everyone who participated in this exchange- it’s been a ride!! <3<3


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